Axes and Integers and Realizing You Love Someone
by twelvedaysnorthofhopeless
Summary: Erik is avoiding Charles. Charles thinks it's because he hates him. Raven thinks it's because he's an idiot.


In which I write a thirteen page bedtime story for a friend to try and relate Cherik to Calculus, Erik is unbearably awkward, Raven is sassy, Charles' clothes are mocked on a few occasions, very bad grammar jokes are made, everything is fluff and somehow it hurts, and my tenses are absolute shit. Enjoy!

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><p>It helped Charles to picture Erik's feelings and behaviors in terms of the two-dimensional, on a graph of sorts. A linear representation of the appearance of their relationship, with the supposed measurement of friendship occupying the y-axis (obviously, "best of mates" ranked towards the top of the graph, and "cautious strangers" leaned towards the lower end, and then stopped there because Charles would rather not think about any negative integers) and time occupying the x-axis. For the purpose of scalability, Charles attempted to keep the time measurement limited to days, though that became increasingly difficult as Erik's moods tended to alter drastically by the nanosecond. Either way, some form of visible representation in his mind of where they stood over the course of the past few months was invaluable. Especially the notes scripted into the margins of his theoretical plane, detailing the things that made Erik quite…shall we say, <em>distressed<em>, and things that kept him calmed, neutral. Sadly, neutrality was the best he could hope for at the time, because he was yet to find anything that actually made Erik happy. Well, he did rather seem to enjoy pushing Sean off of tall structures, but unfortunately that was not something Charles took pleasure in replicating.

Anyway, the graph. Charles used the term "linear," loosely, because that implies a consistent slope and thus a quantifiable method to solving an equation and predicting future outcomes. Really, all Charles knew for sure was that when he leapt into the water and _tugged_, when their minds first made contact and their eyes first met, they began at the bottom of the graph (the origin, of sorts, point "zero, zero," signifying that no time had passed and thus no clear relationship had been established. Charles should have liked to think that saving a man's life would have given him some sort of boost-up, allowed the graph to begin at a higher point along the upper axis, but he sadly discovered that did not apply to saving men with revenge pulsing through their veins and half a desire to die in the process).

Erik began regarding Charles with skepticism and maybe a little…_aversion_, but from the moment Charles swore to him that he was not alone, and offered himself as a potential ally, they had climbed the graph at a relatively steady pace over the past months. Of course, there were dips here and there (Charles has not yet successfully identified why Erik stopped speaking to him for three days following the 5th of August, when nothing had transpired besides making recruiting arrangements with the CIA and some innocent flirting with Moira). But in a general sense, they had climbed to at least "decent friends." Well, Charles hoped, at least. After all, his graph was entirely subjective, and Erik was a very difficult man to read without the use of telepathy. Of course, Charles caught hint of his emotions and occasionally Erik would unintentionally project something particularly vibrant or loud, but other than that, Charles had to figure him out without any aid, or risk angering Erik by invading his privacy with his powers. It was like trying to find meaning in a post-impressionistic painting, good God.

"Decent friends," he liked to believe. Some semblance of an equation, a steady growth, a process of sorts, one that he thoroughly enjoyed, all the more as time passed and they grew closer.

But over the past week the graph had…_wibbled_. Not quite dipped, no, or at least, _he hoped_, but…trembled somewhat, made reading Erik all the more difficult as his mind was clouded and all he was projecting was uncertainty, confusion, pain, and something that Charles for the life of him _could not identify. _Strong, surely. Clear, absolutely. Identifiable? Diagnosable? Amendable? Damnably, no. Not even in the slightest.

And last night, Charles feared that line plummeted into those despicable negative integers.

It was just another nightly game of chess, a continuing ritual that Charles secretly looked forward to throughout the day. He'd been uncertain (and a little hurt perhaps, but not _heartbroken_, certainly not) all that morning and afternoon because of the aforementioned "wibbling," accompanied by the nagging feeling that Erik was avoiding him for some reason. So when Erik entered the study late that night, with Charles curled up in his favorite armchair, Charles was pleasantly surprised to see him (he did _not_ fumble and drop his book in his excitement, and he had not been waiting up for Erik at all, he just enjoyed holding books upside down and staring off into space, it helped him _think_).

"Erik," he said with a smile. He did not stammer at all, and his voice did not crack in the slightest, and even if it had, Erik certainly didn't hear it nor did he poke fun at it.

"To be honest, I wasn't certain you were coming," Charles added, a little sheepishly.

"And let your first victory against me be by forfeit? Hardly," Erik said, on the edge of a rare laugh. But there was a thick, underlying tension in his words. And he was projecting that again, that _thing_ Charles couldn't name, coupled with an almost overwhelming wave of sadness.

But Charles smiled at him, let him sit down, and allowed a few minutes of silence (broken occasionally by witty banter and the sounds of their intense concentration) before he said anything of it. But he did have to say something. Admittedly, he was becoming quite concerned.

"Is everything all right, my friend?" he prodded tentatively, focusing on his fingers brushing over his remaining players on the board rather than meeting Erik's eyes. Erik tensed immediately; Charles could feel it without telepathy, without even _looking_ at him.

"Why ask?" Erik said gruffly. Charles glanced up at him, and found Erik didn't want to meet his gaze either. Which tipped Charles off immediately that something was very wrong; Erik always, without fail, spoke to his eyes. (And sometimes he would look at his eyes and say nothing. Charles assumed it was because he didn't fully trust him, and was trying to read him somehow, but the reasoning didn't quite coincide with the softness of the gaze).

"Could you answer me first, before asking your own questions?" Charles said with forced lightness, trying to seem as conversational as possible, but he felt his worry creeping into his voice. Erik didn't answer. He did, however, finally meet his eyes. And the sadness Charles felt resonating from him was almost painful. If he was worried before, now he was terrified.

"Erik, please, I only—" Charles reached out to him, but Erik flinched from his hand, knocking over his glass in the process. Fortunately, only a bit of ice had been left, nothing that would stain the carpeting. Erik gave a hasty, anxious apology, but Charles shook his head and said, "It's quite all right, I've got it." The glass had rolled close to his chair. He bent down to pick it up, feeling the sleeve of his sweater slip to expose his neck and shoulder—he'd lost a bit of weight in the past month or so, a result of late nights working and vigorous training. Absentmindedly, he paused in grabbing the glass to adjust it. Before he could, he felt the intensity of that emotion of Erik's that he _could not name_ spike in power, becoming overwhelming. He couldn't stop himself from wincing, a gasp escaping his lips, and he looked up at Erik. Unconsciously, to nurse the shock of pain that had shot through his head, his fingertips grazed his temple. Erik saw the motion, and misunderstood.

"We had an agreement," he snapped, bolting out of his chair and glowering down at Charles. "You were to stay _out of my head_." Charles jumped slightly, stunned, then glanced at his hand and realized what had upset him.

"Oh, _no_, Erik I didn't—"

"Is that what you wanted? To bring me in here, get my guard down, and put me through a goddamn interrogation?" he raged, his fists clenching so tight at his sides that his knuckles were white. "And if I don't cooperate, you'll _make_ me, is that right?"

"That's not _it_, you don't understand," Charles insisted, getting to his feet and trying to reach out and calm him (but why was Erik suddenly so afraid of Charles touching him?)

Erik didn't even have to touch the doorknob—the door swung open with just a flick of his hand, slamming against the wall from the sheer force he used.

"Erik please, tell me what I've done," Charles begged, desperate to run to him, but knowing that it would only send him away. He was trapped where he stood. And Erik was still in the doorway, his back to him. Charles couldn't see his face.

"God, Erik just tell me why you're so angry with me and I'll _apologize_!" he said, almost laughing—partly from the ridiculousness of it all, but mostly from confusion and misery. "I'm apologizing _without_ knowing, even, is that enough?"

Erik didn't speak. But he didn't move either. Charles swallowed thickly and hesitantly stepped forward.

"I'm worried about you," he murmured, standing just a foot behind him but unwilling yet to reach out and touch him.

He should have.

Because Erik walked away.

If Erik had been discreetly avoiding him last week, now he wasn't even trying to hide it. He no longer joined the rest of them at meals (Charles knew he was probably eating though, he didn't worry about that, so disregard anything Raven may say about him spacing out staring at Erik's empty seat because it's a blasted lie). He trained alone, and found some excuse to get away whenever Charles came too near. Or found no excuse him and simply walked off without a word. Charles knew from the looks he received from the boys that they suspected the two of them had gotten in a fight. And Charles knew from the looks he received from Raven that she _knew_ they'd gotten in a fight. But—bless her—she guessed correctly that Charles didn't want to talk about it.

"I'm not going to prod," she said, finding Charles sitting in a (pleasantly, peacefully, not miserably) empty study the third day into Erik's unreadable behavior. "But I will offer my services."

"Your services?" Charles bit back a smile. "And when did the day arrive that my little sister became old enough to give _me_ advice?"

"Oh, probably the day you dove into the ocean after a rampaging, half-drowned, angst-ridden German and I _advised_ you that it might have been a bad idea to play chess with him?"

"He enjoyed chess," Charles said, a little stung. "…Or I thought he did. I suppose it was rather selfish on my part, even if he has won every game."

Raven sighed, and came to sit by him on the sofa, leaning her head on his shoulder. Charles gently brushed her hair and relished the affection; they'd lost a bit of that easy intimacy when they'd invited an army of mutants in varying stages of pubescence to ransack their home and prepare for World War III.

"Charles, I know you. You're a telepath, and that's _incredible_, and I respect that you don't use it to make or keep your friends. I mean that, I do," Raven said soothingly, but with that touch of attitude in her voice that made her _her_ and maybe made Charles' heart clench just a little, and not in a bad way.

"_But_," she went on to say, sitting up and looking him in the face. "At the same time, you expect people to just…to tell you _everything_ about what they're thinking and feeling because that's telepathy, and that's _easy_. Real people, real relationships…are hard." She softened the blow (a blow, yes, even if it made perfect sense and even if Charles knew that it was very much true) with a smile, and added, "I didn't open up right away either, if you'll recall."

"Yes, but Erik is neither eight, nor blue, nor a girl."

"Oh, we could argue two of those."

"_Raven_."

"No, but really Charles," Raven said, fighting her laughter down to say seriously: "You see what I mean, don't you?" Charles smiled and nodded, rubbing between her shoulder blades affectionately.

"Yes, oh wise and powerful sister, never shall I doubt you again."

"You're an ass," Raven giggled, shoving him back against the couch as she stood. Before she left, she added: "Give him time, Charles. I hope you're smart enough to see he wants to talk to you just as badly as he wants to get the hell away from you."

Yes, Charles was smart enough to know that, that's what made it so complicated. Because the whole time Erik was yelling at him, his words filled with anger, his mind echoed sadness and pain. And every time Erik walked away from him, Charles could feel his anxiety, his loneliness. And maybe, maybe, Charles liked to believe (privately, no one can prove it, of course) that Erik missed the nightly chess matches as much as Charles did.

And maybe, perhaps, all those times Charles stayed late in the study (not waiting for Erik, ridiculous, he was a professor and he had work to do, like stare at the walls, analytically of course) and all those times he felt Erik pass by the door, lingering for just a moment, late into the night, were not times that Erik was getting up for a midnight snack.

Or maybe they were both just idiots, one blind to the feelings of the other, and one blind to his _own_ feelings. That's what Raven would say.

Charles would eventually agree.

(But never out loud.)

* * *

><p>"Give him time," said Raven. "Patience," said Raven. "Sit in the study and pace till you dig a track into the floor because you know he's out there but you can't talk to him because<em> I<em> told you not to."

Raven did not say that, not in so many words. But she may as well have for all it helped Charles, 12:30 at night dragging his feet across the study while he battled the urge to go outside.

Erik _was_ out there. Charles could sense his mind, feel that the raging torrent of emotions he'd become accustomed to in the past week had been replaced with a strange peace. The sadness remained, and so did that _other_ feeling, but if Charles had to embody it all in a single word…maybe, fondness? It made very little sense, and he was so curious and concerned and just desperate to speak with his (former?) friend that he couldn't focus on anything else.

"Patience," said Raven. _Well,_ _bollocks to you_, said Charles. He was going out there, and nothing was going to stop him.

Oh, _shit_ what had he been thinking? "You weren't thinking," that's what Raven would say. "You should have listened to me and my uncontested intellect." Shit bugger and _fuck._

It had seemed so easy to just waltz out there, in the cold, wearing those ridiculous sweatpants with the torn leg and the stain on one knee and say something_, anything_. Of course, once he got a little closer he realized he had no idea what to say at all. Then he suddenly caught just the barest sight of him (his back and his very, very broad shoulders how could a man have such broad shoulders but a thin waist? RAVEN, Raven wondered that sometimes. Charles didn't notice until she pointed it out and even then no one can prove that he cared at all) and the moment he caught that single glance in the darkness he darted back behind the nearest wall. For some reason, his heart was _pounding_ and his face felt flushed, and he felt very ridiculous pressed with his back against the wall, his arms splayed out to his sides. What was _wrong_ with him? He'd never had trouble talking to Erik before, this was hardly any different. They were both gentlemen, after all. They could settle this easily, peacefully, and without _sweaty palms_ dammit why were his hands so clammy all of a sudden?

Calm. Calm down. Deep breath—quiet—wouldn't want him to hear. Okay. And walk out.

Charles took a step out from behind the wall, feeling his breath catch in his throat when he saw Erik, leaned against the stone railing that overlooked the grounds, his back straightening as he tu—_as he started to turn his head_ shit, nope, nope, not ready, not ready.

He darted back behind the wall, freezing there for a moment and praying that Erik had not seen him. He held his breath, hearing only the frantic beating of his heart, which he was still unable to explain and hesitant to analyze. When he could not hear anything beyond the wall, he allowed himself a second to breathe, then began to creep away.

Then Erik sighed, and called, "_Charles_."

Charles' shoulders slumped, and he let out a tiny sigh of his own before turning around and coming out from behind the wall, his hands anxiously fiddling with his pockets. He remained there, rocking back and forth on his heels, uncertain of whether to come forward or not.

It was a full moon, with very little cloud cover, and the light caught every bit of Erik's already-sharp features and turned them to blades. His hair was loose and hanging in his face, mussed out of its usual slicked fashion from sleep (or frustration due to lack of sleep, which would explain why he was out there). His eyes met Charles', and in the pale lighting they looked more blue than usual. Not that Charles paid attention to the way the color of his eyes varied under different light.

"Er…good evening," Charles mumbled tentatively in the ensuing silence. Then Erik smiled at him—albeit tiredly—and any remnants of his hesitation vanished.

"Come here, Charles. I'm not going to_ attack_ you."

Charles let himself laugh a little at that, and came to stand beside him and stare out into the blissfully clear night.

He'd always thought, as a boy, that the grounds of the mansion looked most beautiful at sunset, but the light of the moon and gentle glow of the stars put that thought to rest. There was just the slightest dusting of frost on the grass, the little crystals catching the moon's glow and setting the grounds alight. There was just enough of a breeze that the reflection of light rippled across the surface of the lake. He closed his eyes, shivering a little as the chilly air brushed over his skin, which had sprung up in goosebumps. But Erik's warmth resonated quietly beside him, and it was comforting in the evening cold. It was funny, that standing so close to him made Charles realize all the more how much he missed him. How much he wanted his friend back.

And when he opened his eyes, and spotted the satellite dish on the tree line, he finally understood.

"_Oh_," he said suddenly, to himself. "That's it, isn't it?" How had he been so _stupid?_ Erik had first begun to behave strangely that evening, just hours after Charles raided his memories and practically bullied him into moving the dish. No wonder Erik had been so upset—Charles had shattered their trust, dredging up such a beautiful memory and forcing Erik to share it, to relive it, to let down his guard in front of him. And of course Erik would be so hateful towards any hint of Charles' telepathy after he'd used it in such a way. He'd hurt him, and Erik was too proud to admit it.

"Erik, I'm sorry, truly I am," Charles said, turning and facing him. Erik looked down at him, looking almost confused.

"For what?" he asked.

Charles groaned, and threw his hand out at the dish, glaring at the stupid thing. He said, "For _that_. I stole a memory from you. I forced it out of you, I soiled—I _bastardized_ it just to see what you were capable of. I abused a beautiful memory of yours for my own selfish purposes. And for that I am so, so sorry my friend. If you cannot find it in you to forgive me…I sincerely understand."

He felt Erik's gaze on him, but he was too ashamed to meet it. God, he'd been such a fool. All he could do was stand there, hang his head, and await Erik's furious response, or worse, the sound of his footsteps as he walked away.

"The memory…" Erik said. "Charles, that—it isn't why I could move the satellite."

Confused, Charles' eyes widened and he turned to Erik, asking, "What on earth do you mean?" He'd expected to detect some sense of anger from Erik, at least. Maybe (if he was so fortunate) forgiveness, or even relief, but all he could detect was crushing sadness and…well, that _feeling_ again.

Erik stared at him, his eyes filled with so much confliction and pain that Charles felt that familiar pang of worry like a blow to the stomach. He kept looking away, and back, and finally at Charles' hand, of all places. Then, he reached down, so slowly, and took it.

"Grabbed" was far too rough a word. It was like Charles' fingers were the thinnest, most fragile glass and Erik cradled them safely in his hands. So gentle and uncertain was the touch, that if not for the steady warmth pulsing from Erik's fingers, Charles might have doubted he was touching him at all. Softly and almost undetectably, Erik's thumb massaged the chill from Charles' hand that he himself hadn't even noticed was there. Charles watched as Erik brought his hand up, his breath catching in his throat when Erik hesitated at the point between their chests. Something in the nature of the touch changed in that split-second pause. It was no less tender, and no more identifiable, but every trace of uncertainty had vanished. Finally, Erik brought Charles' hand to his temple, covering it with his own warmth and holding it there.

"Look," Erik said. In the stillness and fragility of the moment, Charles had entirely forgotten what Erik's voice sounded like, making that one, simple word like a thrill of fire coursing through his chest. Had he always spoken like that? Had Charles never noticed how the deepness of his voice, the faint trace of accent, reverberated in his bones?

Or had something changed?

He wanted to know. But he desperately didn't want to shatter…_this_, whatever it was, whatever Erik had created.

"Are you sure?" He'd meant to speak with his usual timbre and control, but it came out more like a whisper.

Erik's eyes locked with his, filled with so many conflicting emotions that not even Charles, a telepath, dared to try and decipher them. And he—God, he just seemed so _uncertain_, what was he so afraid of Charles seeing? After all the darkness, torment, and pain that Charles had found that first night in the water, what could Erik possibly have left in him that scared him so much he couldn't bear to be around Charles at all?

"Please," said Erik, and Charles closed his eyes and plunged into his mind.

It took Charles no time at all to find the memory; it stood at the forefront of Erik's mind, awaiting Charles' familiar knock upon the door of his consciousness to open to him. And open it did, launching Charles into the darkened room, brushed with the soft light of candles and smiling faces. Even after already bearing witness to it, Charles still found himself captivated by the power and beauty of Erik's memory, a spark of light and warmth in the wintry landscape of his past.

But while he was moved by the memory, he remained confused. He didn't understand what Erik had meant, what he'd wanted him to see. And then, he realized with a start that this wasn't the memory of Erik lighting the candles with his mother—it was the memory of _Charles showing it to him. _Then the faces of the young Erik and his mother faded away, and for the first time, Charles saw himself through Erik's eyes.

"_That was a very beautiful memory, Erik. Thank you."_

He couldn't see himself at first—not entirely—because Erik's eyes were clouded. That in itself struck something in Charles that was almost painful.

"_I didn't know I still had that."_ Erik blinked back his tears and cleared his vision, and Charles saw himself standing beside him.

And…and that couldn't be _him_. Charles scarcely recognized that man, dark hair softly framing his exquisitely pale features, sparkling blue eyes tinged with the red of tears. His lips, from Erik's eyes, seemed unnaturally red, and Erik's gaze lingered on them longer than Charles had realized in the moment. But all of that, all of it was inconsequential compared to the light that seemed to encase Charles' entire body.

"_There's so much more to you than you know…"_ The light intensified, and Charles knew with a certainty now that it couldn't be the sun, because rather than a reflection on Charles, it was like the light was coming _out_ of him. It brightened like a realization—like it had always been there, lingering on the peripherals of Erik's vision, and at that moment he looked at it head-on for the first time, and it was almost blinding.

"…_not just pain, and anger…there's good, too, I felt it, and you can harness all that. You have a power that no one can match, not even me."_

"_Come on. Try again…"_

Erik turned away, reached out to the satellite, and Charles felt his turmoil of emotions like a crippling weight. It was the point he'd told Erik to find—between rage and serenity—but it was so much more than that, it was like the point between the most unfathomable happiness and most crushing agony. Charles understood; something else, something that was not the memory was driving Erik's power. That strange glow that flooded his thoughts and his vision, tinged with images of Charles and fragments of his voice not just in that single moment, but a compilation from all the time they'd been together. Then Erik turned back to Charles—and _God love him_ his vision was so blurred from unshed tears—and that strange light wouldn't fade, though it seemed that Erik was trying so hard to fight it.

And Charles recognized the light, recognized it because it felt just like that feeling, the feeling that he couldn't name, the one that made Erik want to go to him and run from him, that made him skeptical and yet trusting, that seemed to be the only thing Charles had ever found that made him _happy_, that made him so painfully _afraid_ and so…so—

Oh.

_Oh._

And like a jolt, Charles was ripped from the memory and thrown back into his own consciousness, like Erik had pushed him out and slammed the door in his face. And Charles—_Charles,_ he just, he didn't have time to process any of—

"I thought you had the right to know," Erik said darkly, with Charles only vaguely aware that he was even speaking. "I'm sorry, Charles."

All this time. All this time, Charles—and he was a telepath, dammit, wasn't he?—he'd been reading him, and Erik had been projecting it so, so loudly. How could he not have known? How could he _possibly_ have not recognized…

But wait. Erik…Erik was _Erik,_ he was a man, a man like Charles. Which would make the two of them men, males, humans possessing…well, _male things_. Things that belonged to Erik that Charles really didn't need to be thinking about because Erik was a _man_, a tall, handsome, warm, good-smelling, sinewy, captivating—_man_, he was a _man_! Charles, he knew, like everyone else knew, that there were men that preferred the company of other men, but Charles was not one of those men. He _wasn't_. He really and truly was not.

Unless of course that man was Erik, in which case Charles said _bugger_ to any of his former rules and regulations and gave into the overwhelming desire to hold, to be held, to touch, to want, to…to lo—

"…and be gone by morning."

Wait…what?

Shit, Erik had been talking this entire time and Charles had just been staring blank-faced at him like an absolute fool. And—and leaving, he was _leaving _him?

"E-Erik," Charles choked out, still not entirely in control of his voice. Or his mental processes. Or his, you know, everything.

"Thank you, Charles," Erik said as stiffly as he could manage, but Charles could feel the suffocating emotions inside him, longing for release. He smiled at him, but it was weak, and filled with so much agony. "Thank you for…everything. I am sorry."

His back was already turned, and he was walking away. It took a moment for Charles to fully realize it, and it took an embarrassingly long time for him to react.

"No, wait," he said, the slight quaver in his voice completely intended, okay? But Erik either didn't hear him, or was ignoring him entirely. "Erik, stop! Wait!" Charles took off, running full-sprint to catch up to him. When he finally got close enough, he lunged at him. Were it not for Erik's stature and unquestionable strength, he might have thrown them both to the ground.

"I said _wait_, will you just listen to me?" Charles panted urgently, his hands gripping at Erik's arms, keeping him there, though his back was still turned to him.

"Let go, Charles," Erik said weakly, twisting one arm out of his grip. But Charles held fast to the other and refused to let go.

"No, you have to _listen to me._ Erik, I don't want you to go anywhere. I want you to stay. I need you to," Charles insisted, his hand holding tight to Erik's wrist, and not at all shaking like a child's. Really, it wasn't.

"I highly doubt you need my sick mind clouding your thoughts, it will do neither of us any good," Erik said. Well, _lied_. Translation: "It's too painful for me to be anywhere near you."

"Erik—"

"This is better for both of us. I don't belong here—I should be chasing after Shaw, not settling down for nightly chess matches with a poorly dressed professor…"

"Now that's just rude—but no, really, _Erik_—"

"...only get in your way like this, and I'm sorry, I betrayed you and abused your kindness and I know you must be disgusted with…"

"OH FOR CHRIST'S SAKE ERIK, _SHUT UP_!" Charles practically screeched, the loudest he'd ever raised his voice to anyone, and Erik knew it. And he did shut up—he shut his perfect little mouth quite nicely. So nicely, in fact, that Charles stepped in front of him, pulled hard on his arm, and claimed those lips for his own.

He'd anticipated Erik to be surprised, at worst, and pull away. At best, he'd anticipated it to be like any other first kiss—politely and chastely returned, to either turn them both off from each other, or to promise future displays of affection. Yes, that was what he'd expected from his experience. In kissing women.

When he kissed a man—kissed Erik—and after a second of hesitation Erik fully realized what was happening and his stiff, tightly-pressed lips came _alive_, Charles Xavier, the handsome, charming, telepath of all people, was thrown completely off his balance.

Because once Erik realized what was happening, his arms swallowed him whole, and his lips attacked Charles' with a vengeance. It was messy and mindless and warm hands on a cold night and nothing like Charles had ever experienced in a lifetime of seducing any pretty lass that crossed his path. This, this was what he'd been looking for those lonely bar-hopping nights, propositioning the prettiest girl, the smartest girl, the most rebellious girl, always trying something new, something different, but finding that he was always left satisfied, and nothing more.

With Erik, he was so beyond satisfied that it wasn't satisfying at all, because it wasn't enough, it would never be enough; every minute of every hour of every day for the rest of his life could never be enough, and that was what made it _perfect._

Then Erik was pushing him back, gasping for breath, staring down at him with his pupils blown wide black, what remained of his irises flooded with affection. The frown on his face desperately fought the happiness and adoration in his eyes, his mind far too skeptical to allow even such a clear confession of Charles' feelings to go without questioning.

"What are you doing?" he hissed. Rather belatedly, Charles thought, bemused.

"Well I was standing behind you, and you refused to stop your yap, so I said to myself, 'Well fuck it, I'm going to kiss him,' and then…then I did," Charles panted, all in one breath.

"_Why_?" Erik asked, ever the obstinate fool.

"Do you love me?" Charles asked him simply. Erik, caught completely off-guard, silenced immediately and would not meet Charles' eyes.

"You've been through my head, you already know," Erik snapped, but not unkindly.

"I want to hear it," Charles said, swallowing hard. "Do you love me, Erik?" He'd been wrong for the past month, when he couldn't even identify the feeling at all. But he couldn't be wrong now; he knew that with absolute certainty. Only, there was a part of himself, a very selfish part, that wanted to hear it in Erik's voice.

When Erik kept his back turned to him, when he still wouldn't—couldn't— answer him, Charles made his intentions clear.

"Because, I do," he said. "…Love you, I mean. I thought I made that clear. But—well, if I didn't, then you should know. Now. That I love you. Erik." Congratulations were surely in order—by far, that was the single _worst_ love confession Charles had ever heard in his entire life. And it all felt wrong, and he _knew_ it was wrong because Erik had turned and—and dammit he was looking at him like _that_, that face that he made sometimes and Charles knew he must do it on purpose to throw him off because—because it was that. _Face_. And he wasn't talking, and of course, when no one is around to shut Charles up, he, without fail, will not.

"I mean, I could be wrong, of course. When you break it down, love is nothing more than overactive chemical synapses spurred by an attraction—almost always physical, so really love doesn't actually exist at all, it's all just lust, and just because my serotonin levels are high around you doesn't mean they won't be high around some other attractive ma—…not that I _find_ you attractive, except…wait, I already said I loved you, didn't I? But I'm not sure, I'm really not sure, and this is all very new to me Erik, and please I know this is ridiculously cliché but truly I've never felt this way about _anyone_ before in my _life_—"

"Charles."

Had Erik been that close a moment ago? Charles couldn't remember him being that close. He was very close.

And he was smiling.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

"Well _I_ don't know, _can_ you?" Charles snapped. And God did he sound ridiculous. It was all very, very ridiculous, and he was twenty-four, wasn't he? _And a half!_ Practically twenty-five and he did not need to be standing out in the cold with another man blushing like a schoolgirl!

Then Erik held Charles' face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing at the nape of his neck. And he was smiling—smiling and happiness was coming off of him in waves, sweeping Charles up and taking him by storm.

"Charles Xavier," he said so smugly, the bastard. "_May_ I kiss you?"

"Yes," Charles huffed, any hope of avenging his pride lost somewhere in Erik's eyes. "You may."

And when Erik's lips met his again, Charles decided that any humiliation leading up to that moment was wholly and entirely worth it. Erik moved gently, slowly at first, still so uncertain, and Charles was very much done with that. Impatiently, he tongued at Erik's lower lip, enticing him to take the kiss further, to which Erik responded by opening up to him and claiming Charles' mouth in return. And any and all noises Charles made in response he will admit to, without shame and without regret, and boo to you if you mock him for it. Charles' hands got lost somewhere in the midst of the kiss, and when they both finally pulled out for breath, he found his fingers had gone numb, clutching the back of Erik's shirt. He remembered distantly that it was below thirty degrees outside. Erik seemed to have forgotten as well, because they both appeared stunned when their breath came out in puffs of smoke. And upon seeing the others' confusion, they both laughed.

"You're freezing," said Erik, warming Charles' hands. Charles said, "It's all your fault too, if you'd just kissed me the moment I came outside and not wasted so much time pansying, we'd have had this finished up in a quarter of the time."

"I love you," Erik told him. And even though Charles knew that, and had intended to respond with something witty and not just a little sarcastic, he'd lost whatever comeback he'd designed to an embarrassingly warm feeling in his stomach and the smile on Erik's face, because for whatever reason it was one thing to _know_ Erik loved him, and another entirely to hear him _say it._

And if it took them an extra ten minutes to get inside and out of the below-freezing cold because they couldn't keep their hands (or lips) off of each other, there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

And if on the frantic trek to Charles' bedroom they slowed past the study and realized how sorely they'd missed a nightly glass of scotch and game of chess, then there was nothing wrong with that either.

And if while in the study Erik spotted a book he'd read years ago and had longed to pick up again, and Charles loved nothing more than to listen to people's thoughts while they read and especially Erik's because his voice was beautiful in Charles' mind, then clearly there was nothing wrong there, too.

And if Raven found them the next morning, still fully dressed and asleep on the couch curled up in each other's arms with Charles' head on Erik's chest and a discarded book on the floor, and if she wanted to say "I knew you two were hot for each other," but they both looked so tired and so precious that she couldn't get the words out, and if she grabbed a spare blanket and pulled it over them and made Hank promise not to tell anyone, ever…

Well, then definitely, certainly, indubitably, that was all okay too.

(All that remained was for Charles to make a little extra space on his graph—he was quite certain the boundaries of "best of mates" no longer applied.)


End file.
